Page 39 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

"Dignified?" I suggest dryly.

"Like a pastry ghost," she finishes, eyes dancing.

I shake my head, but I know that if I keep getting to hear her laugh, I'll do anything.

And maybe that should be concerning, but when it comes to these two, I'm starting to accept I'm already a goner.

17

AURELIE

The darkness crawls gently across Rolfo's house, pooling in the corners before spreading outward, consuming the daylight. I click on the nursery lamp, its soft glow creating a pocket of warmth that holds the night at bay.

Sephy fusses against my shoulder, her tiny lips pursed in drowsy protest. Her silvery-blonde curls tickle my chin as I rock her, but her eyelids have grown heavy, fluttering like thalivern wings fighting against sleep.

"Someone's ready for her crib," I whisper, pressing my lips to her forehead.

Behind me, Rolfo's footsteps approach—quiet for such a large man, a hunter's tread that never fully disappears even in the safety of his own home.

"I can take her," he offers, his deep voice barely above a murmur.

I turn to find him watching us, silver eyes reflecting the lamplight. Something in his gaze makes my skin warm.

"She likes when you put her down," I admit, carefully transferring my daughter to his waiting arms.

His massive hands cradle Sephy with surprising tenderness, dwarfing her tiny form. She settles instantly against his broad chest, giving a contented sigh that melts something inside me. Without hesitation, his deep voice drops into a humming melody—something ancient and wordless that vibrates through the quiet room.

I step back toward the doorway, leaning against the frame. This unlikely tableau—my daughter cradled against this scarred, powerful demon—has become the most natural sight in my world. This man who collected me from the gutter, who has asked nothing in return for his protection, who crafted a nursery with his bare hands.

Rolfo moves to the handmade crib, lowering Sephy with practiced care. His fingers trail along her cheek before tucking the small blanket around her. The purple-black wood of the crib gleams in the lamplight, polished smooth by his patient hands.

"Sleep well, little one," he whispers.

When he turns, he startles slightly, finding me still watching from the doorway. Our eyes lock across the dim room. Something electric passes between us, a current I've felt building for weeks. His silver eyes darken, pupils expanding in the low light.

I push away from the doorframe, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor as I cross to him. My pulse hammers in my throat, but my steps don't falter. I've faced monsters and survived. This—reaching for something I want—shouldn't terrify me so, yet my hands tremble as I lift them to his chest.

His breath catches, sharp and sudden. I rise onto my toes, one hand sliding up to his shoulder for balance. His skin radiates heat through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Aurelie," he breathes, my name a question.

I answer by pressing my lips to his.

The kiss is soft, hesitant. A test of boundaries I've kept rigid since arriving. His lips remain still beneath mine for a heartbeat, then another. Just as doubt begins to creep in, his large hand comes up to cup my face with impossible gentleness.

He steps backward, guiding us both from the nursery, his other hand finding the small of my back. In the hallway, illuminated only by ambient light spilling from other rooms, he pulls back. The loss of contact leaves me cold.

"You don't have to," he starts, voice rough with restraint. His fingers hover near my cheek without touching, as if afraid I'll shatter. "This isn't payment for anything. You owe me nothing."

I reach for his hand, intertwining our fingers, and guide it back to my face. His palm is calloused but warm against my skin.

"I want to," I tell him, my voice steady despite the riot in my chest. "I want…you."

His silver eyes search mine, looking for uncertainty or hesitation. I meet his gaze unwavering, letting him see the truth there. This is my choice—perhaps the first real choice I've made in years.

His hand finds mine, warm and steady as his fingers thread through mine. The simple touch ignites something primal within me—desire long suppressed beneath layers of fear and survival. Rolfo walks backward, leading me toward my bedroom—no, not my bedroom. His guest room. Yet in these weeks, it's become mine, filled with small traces of my existence. A hairbrush on the dresser. A shawl draped over the chair. The scent of the meadowmint tea I drink each night before bed.

His eyes never leave mine, silver pools reflecting questions, seeking permission with each step. I don't look away. Not even when my heart hammers against my ribs like a caged animal seeking freedom.

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